


Closure

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [22]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, The Gauntlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:17:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2764502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theron sees an old face, not once but twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The ruins of the temple were freezing; the mountain winds howled fiercely as they swept through the large gaps left by missing stonework. Ice and snow had built up over many, many years, completely untouched by sunlight in the deeper recesses.

The Guardian had stepped aside for the small party - Theron, Zevran, Alistair and Wynne, and allowed them passage onwards to the Gauntlet. The ranger was doubtful that the sacred ashes even existed, let alone truly believed the claims they could cure any illness.

He pulled his cloak further around himself, sniffing irritably in the cold, and looked ahead down the small corridor as their footsteps echoed against frozen stone. The path seemed to branch off to both the left and the right. Was this the first test? Were they meant to pick a path to choose, which way to go?

“It’s so cold here, brother.” A voice echoed, and Theron froze, eyes going wide as a chill that had nothing to do with the cold stone around them shot through him. That voice… He turned, and stepped back slightly when a Dalish elf walked towards him. Wynne raised her hands and the two melee fighters reached for weapon hilts, ready to deal with another spirit or demon. “Do you feel it? The chill eats at my bones.”

“Tamlen?” Theron’s breath was steam in the air, his voice soft and shaken with disbelief. “Is it you?” He added, looking over the hunter he had been sure had died long ago. He looked no different to the last time Theron had seen him, face soft and eyes full of kind humour. Zevran and Alistair exchanged a look.

“You think: ‘This cannot be Tamlen. Tamlen is gone, he is only footsteps in the dust.’ I am Tamlen, and yet I am not.” The spirit explained, smiling sadly at the ranger. “I am a part of the Gauntlet and part of you.”

Theron’s shoulders fell slightly, barely noticeable underneath the cloak. Yes, this couldn’t really be Tamlen, he was foolish to have even briefly entertained the notion. Tamlen had died. This was the first test of the Gauntlet, then. Showing him the face of one he had lost. Was it to try and break him, make him want to turn back and give up so easily?

“I wish I could have told him I tried to find him.” Theron murmured to the spirit that had taken on Tamlen’s form. “I would have kept searching, but…” He remembered again the circumstances that had forced him to leave - the ruin and the mirror, the sickness he had nearly succumbed to, Duncan explaining that he had to leave behind everything he had ever known in order to survive.

“Some things lost can never be found, some mistakes never unmade.” The spirit offered, his voice as gentle as Tamlen’s had been. “Those that survive must go on living.” He reached out to touch Theron on the shoulder. “You have suffered enough, thinking for so long that you could have done something. It is time to leave that behind.” Theron stared wide-eyed at the spirit, feeling something shift inside, like heavy snow falling from a branch. “Take this.” The ranger looked down when something was pressed into his hands, as cold as everything else in the temple. A hunting horn? It looked old, and charred.

“It is nothing compared to the crafts of our fathers, but it should serve you well. I wish you well, my friend.” The spirit continued, removing his hand from Theron’s shoulder and stepping back. He smiled, and Theron gritted his teeth as his heart twisted painfully at the sight. The spirit looked so much like Tamlen. Was it mocking him for his loss? Reminding him of happier days when all he wanted to be was a ranger for his clan. “We will not meet again.”

“ _Atisha, lethallin_.” Theron replied shakily, not knowing what else to say as he watched the spirit turn and walk soundlessly away, around the corner of the corridor and out of sight.

The Dalish elf stood there in silence for a few minutes, head bowed. The rest of his companions were either privy to knowledge or simple experience that the years had given them which made them stand patiently in the background while the ranger finally allowed himself to accept closure and mourn.

 

Theron lapsed into relative silence for the rest of the Gauntlet, heart heavy and mind preoccupied. It even lasted once they got the ashes and left the temple; Zevran and Alistair trying to fill the slightly uncomfortable silence with chatter and, in Zevran’s case, flirting with the red-faced ex-Templar.

None of them were surprised when Theron slipped into his tent almost as soon as he set foot in the camp, to the confusion of the others. Zevran held back a sigh, but ducked in after the ranger, pausing to shut the tent flaps behind him. Alistair and Wynne could explain what had happened, if they wished.

“Do you want to talk about it, _mi amor_?” He asked softly, looking down at the form huddled deep within the furs of the bedroll.

“Not really.” Theron replied, voice unexpectedly calm.

Zevran raised an eyebrow, but made quick work of taking his armour off before he slipped into the bedroll as well, lying just behind the ranger and ensuring he wasn’t touching Theron, just in case. The Dalish elf remained silent, stubborn now, until he rolled over to face the Antivan.

“I don’t even know _how_ to talk about it.” He admitted, blinking hard.

“It is the shock, perhaps. You were not expecting it. You don’t have to talk.” Zevran replied gently, reaching over to stroke the ranger’s cheek.

Theron nodded, moving slightly closer. He hadn’t even taken his armour off, the leather was rough against the blond’s skin.

“Good. Half of the others would insist on it. They’re too caring.” The ranger sighed, resting his forehead against the blond’s shoulder and closing his eyes resolutely.

“Especially Wynne.” Zevran nodded, wrapping his arms round the Dalish elf and holding him close. The tent grew quiet again, Zevran listening to the rise and fall of voices outside the thin canvas for what felt like an hour, or perhaps longer. He looked down at the elf curled up against him, about to suggest they put in an appearance around the campfire, but stopped when he saw that Theron had fallen asleep.

The Antivan smiled faintly, moving as carefully as he could to pull the furs over both of them. He was a little impressed that Theron had not broken down crying when faced with Tamlen - or, a spirit pretending to be the elf - in the flesh, so to speak. Zevran had the strong suspicion it was because Theron was acutely aware he wasn’t alone, that he was standing getting his ears frozen off in some old temple, that he didn’t want to start crying in case Wynne or Alistair started to fuss over him like mother hens. The ranger hadn’t wanted to show weakness then, but what about now?

Zevran reached out to carefully run his fingers over Theron’s _vallaslin_ , following the curving patterns he knew held a strong significance to the Dalish elf; according to him they symbolised Ghilan'nain, the Mother of the Halla - very fitting. They were alone in Theron’s tent; he’d cried over Tamlen before in here, in front of himself, in similar circumstances, so why hadn’t he now?

Maybe it was the shock, or the obvious exhaustion that resulted from walking up and down and around a mountain all day.

“Or perhaps you simply have no more tears left to shed?” Zevran suggested quietly to the sleeping elf, settling down to fall asleep far earlier than normal tonight. He had second watch, but someone would wake him up.


	2. Chapter 2

Zevran wasn’t expecting to be woken by a deafening, high-pitched scream from somewhere outside the tent. The Antivan shook his head, forcing his body to wake up as he heard chaos erupt; the dog snarling and barking, swords clanging, Sten letting out a fierce battle cry.

“Get up. Armour on.” Theron said, not pausing in undoing the tent flaps. That was right, he’d fallen asleep in his armour for once.

“The camp is under attack?” Zevran asked, hurriedly reaching for his armour. He was surprised that it hadn’t happened sooner, and also that it was happening when they were camped not far from Haven, the village eerily deserted after that dragon cult had been eradicated.

Theron opened his mouth to reply, but then another grating, high-pitched screech cut him off.

“Shrieks.” The ranger huffed, shrugging as he undid the tent flaps and burst into the fray with his bow ready, leaving Zevran to swear and struggle with his armour for a few more precious seconds before he managed to pull it on, followed impatiently by his boots and his blades. Shame, and he’d thought it had been Leliana finding a spider or one of Dudain’s hunting presents in her tent.

Alistair and Sten were occupying the brunt of the darkspawn attackers, standing back to back as much as they could. Morrigan was blasting the ones that looked the strongest with ice spells while Leliana was circling, trying to find an exposed back to sink a dagger into before jumping away out of range. Zevran quickly joined her, dimly aware of the hum and twang of Theron’s arrows and the light of Wynne’s healing magic cast from afar.

There seemed to be quite a few shrieks, but Zevran was focused entirely on his blades and avoiding blows from the shrieks’ own. He was unsure of exactly how many enemies there were, too busy flitting from one side of the fight to another, occasionally breaking off to draw attention away from Theron, Wynne or Morrigan, to be concerned with counting.

Soon, there were no more darkspawn left standing, and Alistair went around ensuring every shriek was truly dead. Slowly, the group relaxed and naturally gravitated towards the campfire. Theron and Alistair exchanged a knowing look; both had been jolted awake by a nightmare just before Dudain had started barking in warning.

“Can’t get a good night’s sleep.” Oghren grumbled, plonking himself down on the ground in front of the fire and digging a flask out from who knew where.

“Agreed.” Zevran nodded, knowing that his hair was a mess where he’d been sleeping on it. He looked across towards where Theron stood, about to suggest they go back to the tent until he realised that the Dalish elf had slipped away on quiet feet. “Ah, did anyone see where our fellow Grey Warden went?” He asked, turning and moving out of the blinding circle of firelight. He thought he could see the ranger up ahead, out by the edge of the camp, but then he stepped back, away from something. Was it another darkspawn about to attack?

 

Theron held an arm out in warning when he heard someone approach, not breaking eye contact with the… Person swaying in front on him. He was an elf, made clear by the fact he was completely bald, his pointed ears sharp as… Well, knives. He was ill, discharge from his eyes crusted, and even in the moonlight reflected off the snow around them he was pale. The _vallaslin_ that had once flowed over his face were blotched and faded, distorted by corruption.

“You… _Lethallin_.” The elf rasped, and Theron could hear the fluid bubbling in his lungs. Those two words sent a bolt of shock stronger than any lightning spell through him, made him feel like the rest of the world had been blasted away into oblivion. No… Not this. Anything but this, after what he’d already been through today.

“Tamlen? Is that you?” The ranger asked, voice coming out weaker than he’d liked, but in a way he’d already known. He heard a soft intake of breath behind him, the creak of armour and cloth as someone moved, the sounds of snow crunching underfoot as more joined. There was the hiss of metal being pulled from sheaths, but it sounded distant.

The being that had once been Tamlen, that was more real than any spirit could have been, looked over the ranger’s shoulder, and lurched to one side alarmingly, like a wounded deer about to flee.

“Don’t… Come near me.” He spat, every word a struggle. “Stay away!” His voice rose in agitation, and he took an unsteady step back, one knee almost buckling into the snow. Theron knew he was going to run, as all wounded animals did, before it actually happened, and was ready for it.

“Stay back, he is mine.” He said over his shoulder to whoever had decided to follow him out, already bounding away through the snow after the other elf. The chase was on.

“Theron!” Someone called in surprised dismay, probably Alistair.

“ _Vashedan_.”

“It’s not safe out there!” That was Wynne.

Their cries were lost to the darkness and the wind, both Dalish elves running through the snow and night until Tamlen eventually stumbled on a drift, a dip hidden by the thickening snow, and fell with a pained cry. He looked so weak, but he surged up to his feet a moment later with a fierce quickness, like a snake, that belied his apparent frailty even by elven standards.

“Don’t look at me!” He all but yelled at the ranger who had shadowed him, voice breaking as fluid bubbled in his throat. “I am sick.”

Theron took a careful step back, into the last footprint he’d made, and raised his hands slowly.

“Tamlen, what’s happened to you?” He asked as softly as he could while regaining his breath.

“The song, in my head. It… Calls to me, he sings to me and I can’t stop it!” Tamlen shook his head as if that would clear it, snarling and spitting his words like a wolf. The song, the one Theron heard in his nightmares.

“Don’t want… To hurt you, _lethallin_. Please… Stop me.” He continued, staring at Theron with wide eyes that were starting to film over, pleading.

Theron bowed his head, a lump rising in his throat so quickly he thought he would be sick.

“I wish we’d never found that ruin.” The black-haired man replied, blinking hard.

“I’m… So sorry, _lethallin_. Never… Wanted this.” Tamlen said, starting to sway dangerously again, and for one agonising moment Theron was reminded of the time they’d stolen alcohol from a _shemlen_ merchant’s cart as it travelled through their area of the forest rather than continue tracking a deer, and the way they’d both ended up staggering together and swaying all the way back to camp, brushing off the Keeper’s anger and disapproval with giddy laughter, as if they were children again who were glad they’d been caught.

Theron drew his bow as this time, Tamlen lunged forwards haphazardly, towards him. The ranger span to one side to avoid the blind charge in a spray of snow, drawing an arrow and nocking it in one fluid movement. _When he turns, aim for the eyes_. With luck, in these close quarters it would pierce through his eye socket and into his brain. It would be a quick, clean death. One Tamlen should have had, rather than this suffering. The hunter did not allow his quarry to suffer needlessly.

Tamlen almost fell again as he tried to turn as quickly, snow flying, but turn he did, and Theron’s waiting aim was true.

Tamlen slumped to the ground at his feet with a short, pathetic cry of pain, and then he was truly dead. Theron stood there, staring at the dark, still form against the moonlit snow and blinking slowly. Then he turned and walked a short distance away before his knees gave out.

He was alone, so he curled up in the snow, ignoring the biting chill entirely as it soaked into his armour and the skin underneath it, and sobbed openly to the point of howling. He hadn’t cried so loudly and unashamedly in a long time. When the scouts had returned at last with the litter bearing his mother’s body, clinging to Ashalle’s skirt. When one of Maren’s halla had gone into labour too soon, delivered a stillborn calf after a night’s struggle, and slowly died of blood loss early in the morning. After the young men and women of the clan had received their _vallaslin_ and Tamlen had laughed at his confession, later in the privacy of the night.

But he was a long way from camp, in the foothills of the mountains, so the ranger allowed himself to lower that last wall, to cry and whimper and scream as he wanted in a snow drift until he felt like he would either be sick or be covered by the gently falling snowflakes entirely, buried beneath the feathered cold.

He didn’t even stop when he heard someone plowing through the snow towards him. He didn’t want to, for once, keep up his usual reserved composure. He didn’t even know if he _could_ stop crying. Whoever it was stood patiently, no doubt getting their fingers frozen off, until Theron finally calmed himself down.

The ranger pushed himself to his knees, snow biting at his exposed, numb fingers. He stared down at it blankly, and then scooped up a handful to rub over his face, gasping involuntarily at the shock as he stood up. It cleared his head a little, at least. His back was still to whoever had trailed all the way out after him, but he made himself turn at last.

Of course, it was Zevran who had followed him out, a thick cloak hiding most of his body from view. It would hardly have been Oghren. The former Crow held out a second cloak silently.

“Well, you’ve seen me at my absolute worst now.” Theron said bitterly as he clumsily tied the cloak round his neck, wincing at how hoarse and broken his voice sounded. He _felt_ broken; raw like his nerves had been exposed entirely to the wind, and completely empty now. He sniffed, looked around briefly until he picked his bow up from where he must have dropped it near…

“I need to bury him.” The Dalish elf realised, and Zevran nodded, holding out a shovel from within the folds of his cloak.

The sight of the tool’s sudden appearance was funny somehow, and Theron’s shoulders twitched in suppressed laughter. Had Zevran carried it all the way out here, just on the off chance…? Theron couldn’t help it when he started to actually laugh, more than a tinge of hysteria to it and loud against the quiet of the night. If Zevran was concerned about the very abrupt change in mood, he didn’t show it.

“You… You don’t happen to have a sapling stashed away under that cloak as well, do you?” The ranger asked, gasping for breath and his sore eyes watering again. Zevran shook his head, and drew his own cloak tighter round his body.

“Ah. Shame. I don’t think a tree would survive out here anyway.” Theron sighed, flexing his cold-stiff fingers before he took the shovel, starting to dig out a patch of snow and the ground beneath it, providing it wasn’t too frozen. There probably wouldn’t be any chance of demons possessing Tamlen’s corpse now, given how he was halfway turned into a darkspawn, any other shriek. Could darkspawn get possessed by demons? Or would it be the opposite - would they be possessed by benevolent spirits?

It was inane thoughts like those that kept Theron shovelling in silence, even as he shivered in the cold, the wind and the damp from where he’d lain in the snow and rubbed it all over his face. Zevran still waited quietly a respectful distance away, no doubt even colder despite being huddled up in his cloak.

Eventually, Tamlen was buried. Theron said a brief version of the Elven eulogy his clan had used at his memorial, and then let Zevran lead him back up to camp; Theron had barely even noticed that Tamlen had taken him downhill during the frantic chase.

The camp was unusually quiet when the two elves returned, the slaughter already cleared away, everyone huddled round the fire, most of them gripping warm mugs of freshly brewed tea. Dudain ran up to the ranger with a happy bark of greeting, bouncing around him as if he’d been the one to fetch him - but no doubt Sten or Alistair had had to keep ahold of his collar so he didn’t try to do just that and end up getting lost himself.

Predictably, Wynne fussed over the state of his fingers the most, hiding both her concern and relief that he was relatively okay behind her usual professional (grandmotherly) demeanor of irritation over the fact he’d run off like that. He’d have to have help getting into and out of his armour for the next few days, would do as little bow firing as possible to boot, and he would certainly have a bad cold if not an outright fever, was her final verdict. Morrigan sat between the ranger and Zevran for once, extending a gentle warming magic to help what the fire could not reach immediately. Oghren was passed out snoring loudly already, and Sten was discussing - arguing, really - with Alistair about the merits of building some kind of fortifications around the camp in future. Leliana served the two elves tea, and then retired to the other side of the campfire to quietly pray with Wynne.

Theron merely sat there staring blankly at the fire, shivering like a newborn halla, and mute with what he guessed was shock. He felt numb all over, not just in his fingers - but they were prickling and stinging fiercely now as the blood flow returned, encouraged by the fire, Morrigan’s magic and the hot cup held carefully between his palms, fingers curled uselessly round the wood and metal.

He couldn’t think about Tamlen just yet. His mind wasn’t able to process everything that had happened, all in the space of a day. But he would, when he was ready.

**Author's Note:**

> I think when I wrote it this was supposed to come before the Taliesen incident/Rushing, and I got the order wrong. Ah well.  
> [Numb playing in the background]


End file.
